


Beyond the Firmament

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Paternoster Row: the spinoff [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Flirting, Gen, Mind Control, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny and Vastra visit a medium on Doyle's insistence, but something seems different about her seances. Anaya, dealing with her own ghosts, investigates on by herself. Can our heroines pierce the shadowy veil surrounding this mystery?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Firmament

“Another séance, Doyle?” Jenny is too busy rolling her eyes to meet Vastra's exasperated stare. The man is certainly passionate, she has to admit. But this must be the hundredth one he's tried to drag them along to since they'd met almost four years ago. And nothing seems to have any damper on his enthusiasm for the subject. “Haven't we debunked enough of them?”

Doyle shakes his head vigorously. “For every fraud we uncover, we find some new, amazing phenomenon! Each alien, each strange energy reading fills me with hope, with joy, with wonder at the scale of our universe. Each new piece of technology makes me dream of that day when our science reaches the point where we can definitively touch the afterlife and the supernatural! Far from discouraging me, each adventure with you thrills me forward! But Mademoiselle Mirabelle is legitimate, I promise! I am told that while her public seances are awe-inspiring, it is her private, one-on-one sessions which truly must be seen to believed, or so every participant has raved.”

Vastra's eye-ridges had pricked up at this last piece of news. “Perhaps we shall attend one of Mademoiselle Mirabelle's seances.”

“Madame--” Vastra cuts Jenny off with a wave of her hand.

“Come in, dear,” she beckons to Anaya.

“I didn't mean to eavesdrop,” she says hastily. “I was just walking past, and, well...”

“It's quite alright,” Vastra assures her. “You may certainly come if you like. It will do to have another set of skeptical eyes along, for Strax is ever so bad at sitting still.”

Anaya frowns. “Maybe you'd best take one of the others, then, madame.”

Vastra cocks her head at the girl. “Oh?”

“You know I'm an orphan, madame.” 

“Of course.” Vastra inclines her head graciously. “You need say no more on the subject if it would pain you. But I insist that you come, now.” She favors Anaya with an indulgent smile, and Jenny clasps her hand. “Why don't you see what you can find out about Mademoiselle Mirabelle, and make us an appointment for this Thursday afternoon? I have just had an insight as to a certain matter that the Crown Prince of Belgium asked us to look into. Come, Jenny, we have work to do.”

***

Anaya manages to track down everyone who has attended a private séance with Mademoiselle Mirabelle, though none of them will grant her an audience. They are invariably wealthy, almost all of noble stock, and mostly men and women of influence besides. There are not many of them, but perhaps that is to be expected—no-one had heard of Mademoiselle Mirabelle before her debut less than a month ago. Apparently she had simply set out her shingle as a spiritualist and a medium, and practically overnight had rocketed to the head of her profession. Anaya shrugs. Such fads are not uncommon among those making such dubious claims as they splash onto the scene and then are unmasked as hucksters. Still, she makes a note of it to pass along to Jenny and Vastra, as she makes a note of everything. Solving the mysteries is their business, after all. She just runs the errands and does the dirty work. 

Doyle has brought countless seances to her attention over the past few years, but she has never really felt the need to partake until now. Anaya supposes she is a bit jealous. Vastra and Jenny have each other—and she certainly isn't going to begrudge them that. She thinks Doyle is married, but at any rate he doesn't bring his family around. She can't blame him. But lately Henry has been making eyes at Nellie, which appears to be obvious to everyone except Nellie. Unless Nellie is just doing an expert job of ignoring Henry, which, again, wouldn't surprise her. She would be much more sympathetic to her two star-crossed friends if she wasn't starting to fancy Henry, much to her surprise. She sighs. Maybe she'll offer to go to a rugby match with him. He'll like that, won't he? She doubts very strongly that either of her friends is interested in her that way (if the way Nellie flirts and Henry pines are any indication); she just wishes that they seemed to have more interest in her, period. So yes, she realizes, she is jealous, and lonely, and would very much like to spend even a few moments in the comforting presence of her parents. And so she wants badly to believe that Mademoiselle Mirabelle is authentic in spite of her usual grounded cynicism. If only the private seances weren't so prohibitively expensive... Anaya sighs. Instead, it's just one more detail to report.

***

And report she does. Vastra and Jenny nod approvingly as they stroll easily for Mademoiselle Mirabelle's place of business, and Doyle affirms that she's proved him right, this time, hasn't she? I hope so, she offers, and Vastra merely smiles cryptically at the two of them and says that they'll see. Anaya thinks Madame Vastra's smiles only come in one variety: cryptic. At least as far as the world not named Jenny Flint is concerned. Anaya wonders if Vastra actually smiles differently when she's alone with her beloved, or if Jenny is just better at reading Silurian faces. Or if Jenny just sees what she wants to see, an unhappy part of her brain adds. She usually tries to silence that voice, but lately it's been harder. Their affection certainly seems genuine. Not that you have any recent experience, the skeptic chimes in. Curse you, she thinks as they walk into Mademoiselle Mirabelle's home.

Mademoiselle Mirabelle greets them as they enter, and Anaya flushes. This is the first she's seen of the woman herself—usually she is screened off by handlers, busy performing seances, or otherwise communing with the spirit world. Anaya must say she is surprised. She is younger than Anaya might have guessed, even with her title. In fact, she would guess that Mirabelle is only a few years older than she is. Her skin is much darker than she would have expected, indicating Moorish blood, or perhaps she hails from the French Caribbean (for there is no mistaking her accent). And she is much prettier as well, not like some gnarled, wart-covered witch from a fairytale. And yet there are unmistakably the traces of the otherworldly about her, from the flowing red gauze of her dress to the spice of her perfume, to the strange patterns etched in the silver jewelry at her wrists and throat. Altogether, Anaya is floored by her surprise, and she sees Jenny blink, startled as well. Both of her employers' place protective hands on each others' legs once they are seated, and Anaya cannot help but grin. (At least until the little nagging voice reminds her that she'd like to have a protective hand on her thigh, and three guesses as to whose.)

Joining them around the table are a voluptuous soprano of forty (Anaya knows her face but cannot place her name), an elderly duke, and two young men in military uniforms who look like brothers. “There,” Mirabelle says. “Now we are nine, a good number for the spirits.” She smiles intoxicatingly, but Anaya can see Jenny and Vastra already looking eagerly around the room for hidden vapor machines, light projectors, or sliding panels that might conceal an accomplice. Mirabelle rises and dims the gas lights until the room is not dark, but a rather romantic, flickering half-light. 

“I cannot promise that you will see your loved ones today,” Mirabelle begins. “Not with so many minds crying out to the spirit realm, a useless cacophony. For that, you must arrange for a private séance.” Anaya can hear Jenny's skeptical snort next to her. She supposes it does rather sound like a scam, but Anaya holds out hope. “But I do promise that you will be amazed by what you see and hear and experience today,” she continues, smile broad. “I must caution you that the process of crossing onto the astral plane is traumatic, and I may scream or cry out for help. I am told that I may even struggle and try to break the circle. If that should happen, please simply hold me in my seat until I come to my senses.” Doyle and one of the military men, on either side of her, nod. She looks around the table. “Are we ready to begin? Then please, take hands with your neighbors.” Anaya joins hands with Jenny and the old duke and sits, waiting, as Mademoiselle Mirabelle closes her eyes and begins to mumble.

Then, all at once, the young woman begins to scream and buck in her chair. “Help! Help! Oh, mercy, help!” Doyle and the other man do as they are instructed and move their hands to her shoulders, steadying her as she screams. The room slowly fills with blue smoke, and the smoke, too, echoes the screams. “They have me! All around me! Please, help me!” she screams as some of the smoke pours from her mouth.

“It will be just fine,” Doyle says. “I'm a doctor, I'll help you,” he says, comforting her. 

Anaya wants to let go, to draw her legs up and curl into a ball, or else run screaming from the room. The smoke is flashing like a thunderstorm, now, with phantom faces floating through the vapor, howling and screaming. She is on her last ounce of courage when the terrifying noises finally stop and the storm breaks. The faces still flicker in the blue vapor, but now they drift lazily around the room like leaves on a river. Mirabelle smiles. “I am joined to the spirit world,” she explains. “Please, feel free to ask us questions.”

“What does it feel like?” asks the old duke.

“Like dreaming, like swimming, like dancing,” the voices chorus. The elderly nobleman nods, satisfied.

“What do you remember?” asks the soprano.

“I was a mother, a butcher, a soldier, a queen, a poetess, a farmer,” the faces reply. “Sunshine and hoofbeats, snowflakes and steak.”

“Are you happy?” Anaya musters the courage to ask, and the only response is giddy laughter until the smoke clears and the séance is over.

Mirabelle blinks twice and sags back into the chair. “I must ask that you leave me now; my visits to the spirit realm are very tiring.” She gestures towards the doors. “If you have any questions, please, ask one of my assistants.”

Anaya leaves her handbag in the séance room and begs readmission. If either Vastra and Jenny or Mirabelle's assistants suspect the ruse, they don't let on. She gathers her bag and pauses in front of Mirabelle, who is lounging on a sofa, hand over her eyes. “Yes?” the medium asks.

Anaya gasps; she hadn't thought Mirabelle could see her, but then, she is spiritually attuned. “I...I was wondering if I could arrange for a private session.”

“You'll have to schedule an appointment out front and pay half in advance.”

“Please,” Anaya begs. “I can't afford it, but I badly want to talk to my parents.”

Mirabelle opens her eyes lazily, and smiles. “You came with the detectives, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Anaya admits. She isn't sure how that's relevant; hopefully Mirabelle is an admirer.

“Come here,” she says, beckoning Anaya over. She stretches one dark limb up to caress Anaya's face. “Intelligent, insightful eyes. You might have some spiritual gifts yourself.” Her arm drops to dangle languidly to the floor. “I could use a protege; come back tonight at nine for some private lessons, and we'll see what we can do. No charge.”

Anaya blushes and thanks Mirabelle before dashing out of the room, nearly forgetting her handbag again in the process. She, Anaya, a disciple of such a gifted (and beautiful) medium? She is so ecstatic that she quite forgets to say anything about it to anyone.

Not that she has much of a chance, as it turns out. Vastra and Jenny announce that they must run to keep a rendezvous or the royal family of Belgium will suffer an enormous embarrassment. Doyle, too, apologizes: his afternoon is booked solid with appointments, and he will have to hurry and eat lunch if he doesn't want to starve. They agree to discuss what they have seen tomorrow. Anaya bids them each goodbye, and wonders how spend the hours until nine.

***

The hours drag on, but at last, Anaya thinks, it is almost nine, and she knocks on the door. Mademoiselle Mirabelle herself, wearing a silky red robe (and nothing else, Anaya wonders?), lets her in with a bewitching smile. “Come in,” she offers, “and open your mind.” 

Mirabelle leads her back through the premises, past the great hall where she gives lectures on spiritualism, past the séance room they used earlier that day, into what Anaya assumes are Mademoiselle Mirabelle's private quarters: part bedroom, part sitting room, part office. The older woman dims the gaslamps as before, and lights a stick of incense. “Deep breaths,” she whispers in Anaya's ear. She produces a bottle of wine and two goblets from a small cabinet. “Drink this,” she says, offering her a glass of the dark, red wine. Anaya does so, pausing between sips to inhale and exhale. “Good,” Mirabelle says. “Nice and slow. Clear your mind of distractions.” Hard to do, Anaya thinks, when you are so very distracting. “When you are ready, change into this robe and these bracelets and anklets.” She points Anaya to a screen at the other end of the room. “The metal rings improve circulation. Also, you need to be able to breathe properly, and I find that women especially wear such restricting clothes. I expect that has been the downfall of many a spiritualist ere now.”

Anaya laughs nervously, and takes another sip of the wine. “Jenny hates dresses,” she admits. If this is a seduction, she thinks (unlikely, adds her skeptic's voice), then it is working. She goes and changes into the robe, leaving her drawers and corset on underneath. The silk is smooth against her skin, and the bracelets and anklets have a pleasant weight on her bare hands and feet. Her face goes as red as the wine for a moment, but she takes off the robe, drawers, and corset before putting the robe back on and stepping out from behind the screen. Well, she thinks, two can play at seduction. She sits back down confidently and drains the wineglass.

“Perfect,” Mirabelle says, and sits in one comfortable, overstuffed chair, offering its mate, which faces it, to Anaya. “Take my hands, child,” Mirabelle whispers. Take me, Anaya thinks, but lets Mirabelle's palms rest on her own. “Breathe with me: in and out. In and out.” They sit like that, not speaking a word, merely breathing in unison, for what feels like an age. If the hours before nine dragged on before, then they feel like they have flown past in comparison. “Close your eyes. Empty your mind.” Reluctantly, Anaya closes her eyes and tries to think of nothing in particular. This is extremely difficult: though Anaya believes she prefers the company of men, given the choice, Mademoiselle Mirabelle is stunningly gorgeous and otherworldly alluring all at once. Perhaps Mirabelle can sense this, for it is several minutes before they are ready to continue. 

Anaya senses something wrong; perhaps some scent in the air, perhaps some twitch in Mirabelle's hands, and her eyes open. A split-second later, Mirabelle's do too. “Run, child!” she cries, just as the room begins to fill with smoke and her bracelets and anklets stick fast to the arms of the chair. Oh no, she thinks. This must be some sort of trap; everything else was mere misdirection to distract her from the metal bands. At least it was a clever trap, she thinks. Electromagnets in the chair arms and legs, she suspects, for struggle as she might, she cannot tear herself free. As the smoke wreathes close about them, Anaya opens her mouth to scream. Nothing comes out, and one of the faces in the smoke rushes in, making Anaya a prisoner in her own body. Something closes her eyes for her as she blacks out.

Anaya wakes the next morning to the sensation of something rifling through her memories. Jenny and Vastra wanted to meet today, she remembers, rather against her will. Her body changes back into its old clothes and walks back to Paternoster Row. Anaya spends the entire trip screaming inside her brain.

***

“Well?” Doyle asks them pompously.

“Could still be aliens, or a trick.” Jenny bites into a scone with more anger than relish.

“Still,” Vastra adds diplomatically, “I must admit that Mademoiselle Mirabelle is certainly worthy of our attention, Dr. Doyle. We are in your debt for calling our attention to her, for there is certainly something unnatural about her. I might hope your faith is rewarded, Doyle, and that there is nothing more dangerous here than the souls of humanity's ancestors.” Anaya nods stiffly. Jenny notices the odd movement, and the fact that she is in yesterday's clothes. Could be nothing more than a late-night assignation, or it could be anything, she thinks. 

“So, what do you suggest for our next course of action?” Doyle asks.

“What about a private séance?” Anaya interjects. The others turn to look at her. “Everyone's raving about them; there must be something going on there.”

“And that is why it is far too dangerous,” Vastra says. “We must know more before we risk a direct confrontation.” Anaya appears about to rebut her point, then stops. Jenny notes this as well. Slightly more aggressive than usual. She'll have to mention this to madame. Jenny catches her eye before Vastra proposes the next phase in their plan and coughs. “I shall have to think on the matter before we proceed,” Vastra says, keeping her tone measured. “Jenny, come with me, please.”

“What is wrong, my love?” Vastra asks, once they are out of earshot. 

“It's Anaya. Can't quite put my finger on what it is, but there's something off about her, madame.” Her brow furrows. “I'm worried about her.” 

Vastra considers this for a moment. “I, too, have my concerns; I think she perhaps may not be entirely herself. Fetch Strax, and tell him to take Anaya with him on various errands, but to sedate her if she acts too far out of her usual character, and bring her here at once.” Jenny nods. “I, on the other hand, will make ready to pay Mademoiselle Mirabelle a more clandestine visit.”

***

Jenny uses a thin rod to open a window, then crawls in. Vastra follows shortly after her. Jenny grins. Few things can compare to the rush of sneaking around after dark, sword to one side and beloved at the other, she decides. She grins and inhales deeply, then frowns. “D'you smell gas, madame?”

“Yes,” she replies, holding up a light as Jenny turns on a scanner. “The fittings seem to be in excellent shape, however, and the gas is clearly off.”

“Some odd traces, strongest along the gas mains,” Jenny notes. “Something small, maybe, like a parasite?”

“Perhaps,” is all Vastra will say as she signals for them to move on. 

At the end of the hall, the lights are on, and the room glows blue. Jenny and Vastra creep just close enough to hear voices. “I still think we should experiment further with corpses,” one voice says.

A pause, then: “Do you hear something?” Jenny and Vastra have just enough time for their wide eyes to meet before turning and scampering out through the open window.

Half an hour later, Jenny is catching her breath on their front porch, red-faced and smiling. “Near thing, that one, eh, madame?”

“Indeed,” Vastra replies. She has longer legs than Jenny does, but the younger woman's hot-blooded metabolism evens out the playing field on a cool night. She walks inside and slides gracefully into the nearest chair. “But we have learned much, given how short a visit we paid Mademoiselle Mirabelle.”

“Definitely aliens involved,” Jenny begins, ticking points off on her fingers. “I almost feel bad for poor Doyle. And capable of fitting through a gas pipe.”

“I suspect that they are gaseous; recall the phantoms at the séance?”

Jenny claps her hand to her forehead, laughing in disgust. “Stupid me, thinking they were tiny parasites! I just assumed the séance had to be a trick.” 

“Do not be too hard on yourself, my love,” Vastra says, face bright. “I find it extremely valuable to have a different set of biases and assumptions from my own upon which I may draw. Now, what else have we learned?”

“They want something to do with corpses,” Jenny recounts.

Vastra hums, and nods to herself for a moment. “You know I do not like to make theories before I possess all of the facts. But I find that I must venture a guess in this instance.” Jenny inclines her head for Vastra to continue; she stands aloof, relishing the role-reversal. “I cannot help but think that the need for corpses is linked to the private seances. Presumably they seek out those with recently dead family members, and promise to bring the deceased back to life.” Doesn't explain Anaya, Jenny thinks. Something seems off about the explanation, but she can't place it. And madame is usually quite accurate in her conjectures. Jenny shrugs. Perhaps the others will have ideas. But that can wait until tomorrow, she thinks as she follows Vastra upstairs.

***

After a long day of chasing after Strax and running up and down the streets of London, Anaya's body is exhausted, and drops down onto the bed in the little room Vastra and Jenny keep for her (for she has nowhere else to go). She herself, of course, feels very little of the fatigue, having napped much of the day, and instead sits obstinately in one corner of her consciousness, putting on a very good show of having given in and resigned herself to her fate. While the Gelth rests uneasily, Anaya schemes, and prods the Gelth for weaknesses, and marshals her psychic resources, and gathers herself. She has fought voices in her head before and won; Anaya hopes this time will be no different.

In the morning, the Gelth dresses her body and marches it to the library. Jenny, Vastra, and Strax are already there. “Napalm grenade?” Strax offers her, ever courteous.

“Maybe later,” the Gelth quips. Maybe now, she thinks. She knows it can hear her thoughts and vice versa, for it laughed at her screams. Her body drops to its knees, shivering, as the battle rages within. The Gelth didn't expect this, she recognizes, and throws everything she has at it, every scrap of fear and doubt and hate and anger, while she clothes herself with every loving memory, every hopeful dream, every moment with her friends. The Gelth screams and boils out of her. You were never good enough to keep me down, her inner skeptic taunts it on the way out.

Strax's combat instincts are second to none, and, frankly, he is already holding a grenade. “Sontar Ha!” he bellows, arming and spiking the grenade as he bowls into Anaya, knocking them both away from the explosion and behind a heavy desk. “Victory!” he cries as he peers over the desk at the burning rug and shattered floorboards. “Are you damaged, boy?” he asks a split second later. Anaya shakes her head, too exhausted by the sudden effort to speak. “Glorious victory!” Strax concludes.

The next time Anaya wakes, Vastra is leaning over her. “Jenny has made you tea, and Strax has awarded you a medal. I believe he fashioned it himself.” she says with a laugh, gesturing to the crude circle of metal on the table next to her. She is back in her room, she realizes. “I am afraid that I have nothing to offer you, though I did solve three murders and one kidnapping to keep my mind occupied, or else I should surely have gone mad with worry.” 

Anaya smiles weakly. “Have I been out long, then?”

“Only a few hours,” Vastra admits. “But you must be starving. Please, eat.” Anaya hasn't realized how hungry she is until Vastra places the cup of soup in front of her, then a small wedge of cheese, then the sandwich, then a cup of tea and biscuits, and finally an orange. “There,” Vastra says, delighted. “I should never have forgiven myself if you came to lasting harm while under my care, but now you seem the picture of health. When you feel up to the task, please come downstairs, for we must discuss what has happened. 

Anaya nods, and a few minutes later she is in the offices that Vastra and Jenny share. Doyle and Strax are there as well. Jenny puts down the estimates to repair the floor, and beams. “I've been such a fool,” Anaya blurts out.

“Facts first, and then theories,” Vastra reminds her warmly. “Otherwise, even the best and bravest of us are likely to go astray.” Anaya swallows, and nods. “Now, if you please, relate exactly what happened to you over the past twenty-four hours.” They sit, and mostly listen as Anaya talks, asking the occasional question or gasping at a particularly atrocious detail. “Well,” Vastra begins. “A most troubling tale indeed. Still, thanks to your initiative and bravery and Strax's combat reflexes, we know the methods of these Gelth—possess human bodies—and their weakness: fire. Strax, assemble our supply of incendiary weapons. We shall attempt to negotiate first, but we must be prepared against such a dangerous foe.”

“With pleasure, madame.” Strax really needs to acquire a hobby, Vastra decides. 

***

“Where is Mademoiselle Mirabelle?” Vastra demands imperiously. “I must see her at once.”

“I'm dreadfully sorry, she's in the middle of a séance and must not be—” the young clerk sputters as Vastra simply walks past him, the others trailing in her wake. “You can't just—” Vastra deals him a blow to the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. Blue vapor leaks from his mouth and nose only to fly up, flashing angrily. Vastra ducks, covering her face as Jenny gives it a puff from her flamethrower. “Doyle, make sure the boy is unharmed,” Vastra says as she kicks down the door. Mirabelle is screaming, but Vastra cuts through the noise effortlessly. “I demand an audience with the Gelth.” The room drops dead silent. Her suspicion proves correct—a leader of these aliens is using Mirabelle as a host, for the glowing blue face hovering over the medium breaks its connection with the woman and glides down to face Vastra. It snarls at her; very well, she thinks. She can make the first move. “Leave this planet and its people in peace.”

“Would you deny us corporeal form? We have yearned for bodies of our own for so long—to eat, to breathe, to walk, to touch.”

“What about the dead of this planet?” Vastra offers.

The Gelth hiss. “They are unstable; we cannot wait for experiments which may never bear fruit!”

“Even if the humans offered to help you in your research?” Vastra probes.

“What use is the primitive science of the humans to us?” The Gelth leader shouts. “The only help the humans have for us is to ease our torment.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Vastra says as the Gelth rush towards them, into the teeth of their flamethrowers.

The resulting bang seems to shake the people around the table out of their trance, and soon all of them save Mirabelle have left, hurrying out of the room without looking back. “Thank you,” whispers Mirabelle, weeping, flexing her fingers because she can. “What will you do now?” she asks.

“Destroy the rest of the Gelth, I imagine,” Jenny says.

Mirabelle looks pained. “Not all of them, please—there are some who refused to take the bodies of the living, who preferred to conduct research on the dead. They were the only comfort I had these past months.” The others nod; they would have preferred not to kill any of the Gelth, so sparing some is no hardship. “What about my staff, and the others already possessed?”

“You might be able to help us with that,” Jenny says. 

“It's possible to force a Gelth out of your body,” Anaya explains. “You could convince the human hosts to do it.”

Mirabelle laughs. “I'm not actually a medium, you know.”

“No,” Anaya says, “But you have a very strong personality and the gift of persuasion. The Gelth can only use what's already there, and you've got a lot to work with.” Mirabelle looks into Anaya's eyes, then nods.

“If you will be so good as to round up all of the humans possessed by the Gelth, and bring them to your lecture hall,” Vastra begins, “I should very much like to speak to the less-aggressive Gelth.”

“I think I can handle that,” Mirabelle says, and she and Anaya leave to start tracking down the Gelth's victims while Doyle, Jenny, and Strax begin slicing up the tablecloths and curtains and anything else which can be pressed into service as a rope. “How can I repay you?” Mirabelle asks Anaya once they are outside.

Anaya gulps. “I wouldn't say no to another private séance,” she offers, getting the words out before the skeptic can criticize them. 

“Let me buy you dinner first,” Mirabelle says with a grin, and kisses Anaya on the forehead. 

***

“My greetings to the Gelth,” Vastra says. 

“We beg your forgiveness for the actions of our brothers,” says the leader of this faction, flashing sickly-green. “We followed them to this world to stop them, but we are too few.”

“Perhaps you should start from the beginning,” Jenny hints.

“We lost our bodies in the Time War,” the Gelth begins. “We have wandered space and time ever since, seeking replacements. We can occupy a corpse for a short period of time, though that period of time has increased with our research. Live bodies appear to work better, but with the cost of completely enslaving the host. Many of us refuse to take such an option, but others are far less scrupulous.”

“It's the same everywhere, isn't it?” Jenny observes. She smiles as the Gelth bobs up and down in what must be his best approximation of a nod.

“But all Gelth constantly seek new bodies and new opportunities, and so when a portal opened, it should not surprise you that some of us went through it.”

“The time tunneler?” Jenny whispers to Vastra, who nods.

“That portal brought us here, and, as you may well guess, one of our number took possession of an aspiring young woman and concocted a clever scheme to procure more hosts for our brothers.” The Gelth closes his red eyes. “We must apologize again for their crimes; truly, the swift destruction you granted them was a just sentence.”

“We do not hold it against you,” Vastra says with a bow. Certainly she has learned not to blame all humans for the crimes of a few, or even of many. 

“We will return through the portal, and close it behind us,” the Gelth leader announces. “We have thought about the matter, and we have caused enough trouble here for so little gain. The meddlers you may do with as you please. Goodbye, and be safe.”

“Good luck,” the earth-dwellers chorus as the Gelth drift away.

***

After that, the mass exorcism is almost anti-climactic. Mirabelle convinces the possessed humans to give the Gelth the boot while Jenny taunts the Gelth into leaving their hosts and attacking them en masse. A bright blue thunderhead rushes towards them only to meet its destiny and become a pillar of flame. After that, the only thing left is the tedium of untying almost a hundred grateful, confused people.

“Seems a shame that we had to kill so many Gelth,” Jenny says as she polishes her sword that night. The irony is not lost on her.

“Sometimes, your foe will not listen to reason or emotion, and baser methods of persuasion must be adopted.” Vastra notes.

“I can't say I'm bothered by it,” interjects Anaya darkly. 

Vastra blinks. Sometimes she forgets that the quiet girl is there. “I suppose you do have a unique insight,” she grants. “Tell me, are you feeling well?”

“Yes,” Anaya replies without hesitation. “Better than I have in a while,”she admits. It's easier to open up when you're happy, she thinks. “I've been worried about a lot of things that don't seem as important now.” Vastra nods: losing control of one's body will go a long way towards putting one's problems into context. Jenny, on the other hand, can spot someone who is planning on getting laid. 

If Anaya knew what they were thinking, she would probably have to say they were both right. She'll probably take Mirabelle up on her offer of dinner, but she might not, and it might never go further than that. But that doesn't trouble her as much as it might, and certainly less than it would have a few days ago. After having someone literally inside her head, Anaya is just as glad for a little emotional distance in her life, and utterly grateful for the strong network of friends upon which she can lean (and, maybe ask for advice on dating a woman). In the same way, she still misses her parents, but after the Gelth she is willing to close the door on seances and spiritualism, and coming to terms with the fact that they are permanently out of reach means that she can at least move on. 

“Jenny,” Vastra remarks, off-handedly. “When you procured the estimates to repair the library, did you factor in the cost of upgrading from gas-lamps to electric lights?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Good,” Vastra says, and all three burst into laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Not too many historical notes on this one. The first electric lights in London appear in 1882, so most people are still using gas lamps. Mirabelle is not based on any one particular medium. Doyle's obsession with spiritualism doesn't really start until later in his life, after his wife and son pass away, so I am taking a liberty with his character.


End file.
